


in our bedroom we're bloodshot and beat, and never so alive

by yourendlessblue



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Songfic, Young Royai, non-linear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourendlessblue/pseuds/yourendlessblue
Summary: he had a dream; hers was him. she was made for heaven; she'd follow him to hell. he longed for a sanctuary; it was her. he was burning, blazing; she would stay with him all the way. she was lucky he vowed to bleed for the world; because if he could, he'd spill it all for her.but at the end of the day and at the end of the apocalypse, when the walls come down and pretenses crumble, he's just roy mustang and she's just riza hawkeye.(a series of song-inspired moments of roy and riza, ranging from drabbles to one-shots, follows canon timeline but will be somewhat non-linear; tags and ratings will change as it goes)
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	1. and at once i knew

**Author's Note:**

> holocene - bon iver

_and at once I knew, I was not magnificent_

_+_

His dark eyes were the brightest things Riza had ever seen, ever known.

In the days after he’d gone it was all she could think about; the glistening darkness that she could have never stare at for too long, for fear they would suck her in and never let her go. And it had done so. She saw his eyes when she closed hers, saw them when she opened hers to watch the night’s sky. She saw his eyes in the frozen tips of her yard’s barren trees, the icicles glinting underneath moonlight as they swayed from the biting winter breeze. She saw his eyes every time she ran her faucet’s water in the night, in the dark. She would open her bedroom’s windows and braved the icy wind only to look up at the black expanse glittered with stars that reminded her of his eyes.

“I had a dream,” he had told her once, and his eyes were downcast and unsure and shy. She’d listened, then, with the not-so-noble intention of slightly making fun of innocent, naive idealism that she knew he had always held—it was something obvious, for what sort of city boy would be willing to strand himself underneath the creaking roof of an estranged alchemist?

She had made a mistake, then, because as he spoke, his eyes started to light with a glint and a spark and a flame brighter than she had ever seen in her life and she knew, then, she would do anything for him to reach them.

“It’s silly, I know,” he said, as he laid back down on the grass, a hand under his head. He’d closed his eyes with a sigh and it had taken Riza out of her reverie, then—she hadn’t realised how intensely she’d watched them. “And I imagine Master Hawkeye won’t be too happy about it. He might even despise me.”

“He wouldn’t. And he might,” she agreed matter-of-factly, simply because it was amongst the little things she was sure of about her father. Roy had opened his eyes and propped himself on his elbow with a sad smile.

“And you?”

“What about me?” She had asked, turning away from his eyes to calm her hammering heart.

“What do you feel about it? Would you… despise me?”

“Of course not,” she’d answered softly, “I could never.”

He had taken her hand, then, prompting her to look back at him and get lost again in the depth of his eyes. She had wondered whether he knew how his smile, the small, friendly squeeze of his hand, and his bright eyes had made something in her stomach somersault and dip at the same time. He had let go of her hand with the question of her own dreams. She told him she didn’t have any—because whatever it was, it would never be as magnificent as his, she would never be as magnificent as him.

+

_and I can see for miles, miles, miles_

+

Their correspondences were scarce, and they were getting shorter by each letter—him with his military duties and training, her with her father—or what was left of him, anyways.

She had lied to him—she had had dreams. She dreamt being out of the decrepit home, tending to the hollow man who used to be her father, dreamt of being free of the confines of her own sense of duties, but she knew it was impossible. She dreamt about waking up each day with a sense of purpose and drive, with aim and intent and a fire that burned behind her eyes, like his. She dreamt about going places where snow didn’t block her backdoor in winters and where fireworks would light up the sky in the end of summers, or places where the nights were still bright with city lights and hummed with the sound from the road. But most of all, now that Roy had gone to chase his dreams, Riza dreamt about following him—to be by his side and bask in the warmth of his flames, his dreams.

It was an impossible dream, she thought; her back felt heavier by the day; her duties grew more demanding by the day, as she became her father’s sole caretaker and legacy.

Instead she placated herself with smaller dreams that she saw when she closed her eyes, when the radio buzzed through its shaky static with the song he taught her to dance to, when she walked from her school on the narrow lane they always took towards her house with her hand in his. The lane felt like endless miles taken alone. Riza forgone big dreams, magnificent dreams, and thought it would be lovely to have even those smaller ones.

+

_jagged vacance thick with ice_

+

He had appeared within three days she sent her letter as her father withered in his study, and in the back of her mind Riza had known his study chair and desk would inevitably be his deathbed. She wished she had met him before he yelled for her, for her father, but things always went their own ways anyways.

Her father left a vacancy underneath her rickety roof that was bigger than ever, leaving the already hollow thing in her life—her family—completely empty. Roy stood by her side unyieldingly, handsome and taller than she remembered him to be even though she herself had grown, looking exactly where he belonged in his blue uniforms. He offered only little consoling words, but his presence consoled her more than anything.

He would leave again, though, and Riza would be alone again.

But he stayed as long as he could, held her hands and held her and told her he still had a dream. He asked her if she would go with him, but she remembered his bright eyes and the flames that flickered behind it—and at once, she knew that she, too, had a dream.

So she tried to fulfill her last duties of becoming her father’s legacy and bared the secrets to him; and his eyes were a mix of emotions she couldn’t separate. It flashed bright with possibilities and the eagerness of a scholar for a second but it immediately dimmed with a sad anger and it had confused her—was this not what he wanted, was this not what he wished to obtain and to know?

“Not like this,” Roy told her quietly after he put his military coat on her bare shoulder and for some reason the heavy wool felt like home, more than the dilapidated house they stood in. He had let her cover herself and turn to face him before he pulled her into his warm embrace. “I’m sorry he did this to you, Riza.”

He was heartbroken and conflicted, but in that moment she realised that she didn’t mind this. That this was something she wanted, to give him something to soar to his dreams, to let his fire burn brighter more than anything else. If she would be a book, or a weapon, for him then so be it. She wanted his eyes to always be the brightest thing she knew.

“It’s for your dreams,” she whispered to his shoulder. “And it’s now mine, too.”

She accepted it like an unspoken decree—this new dream of hers. She would follow him to the end of the earth.

+


	2. the world outside just watches as we crawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ditmas - mumford & sons

_and I had been resisting this decay; I thought you’d do the same_

+

There were blood on his hands, and there was death in her eyes.

At least that was what his mind saw, anyways—his mind, twisted and turned from the war, of the flesh and blood he had taken. The reality was: there were no blood on his hands. Just ash, dust and sand that had wisped their way past his harsh, lead-heavy gloves. There were no blood on his hands, only the ever-present dark of soot and scent of smoke.

There were no blood on her hands, either, probably only oil and also dust and sand. And if he had the gall to do so, if he took her hands, he would see the redness, small sores and cuts and certainly the imprint of her rifle’s handle from gripping them too tight. But not blood, probably not blood.

But the death in her eyes were real.

 _Even this girl_ , Roy thought, equal parts desperate and hopeless. She was just a girl—or that was what Roy had forcibly conditioned his brain to think of, anyways. She was his master’s daughter, a girl younger than he, a soft, serene presence in the cold echoing halls of the Hawkeye house. She was just a girl, he’d always told himself, even when he couldn’t help but hold her hands and daydream about her honey-brown eyes. She was just a girl, his friend, the closest he’d ever had.

Riza Hawkeye was a girl from his previous life, only seventeen when he left a year ago, when he stood by her as they lower her father, his master, to the grave, when she bared her back to him for his dreams. And _this_ is the dream?

“Do you remember me?”

Roy wanted to laugh. _Please don’t die_ , she’d said to him, once. And here she was, meeting him in what could only be the afterlife.

+

_this is all you came across those years ago_

+

There were a lot of _why_ , and a lot of _how_ , but most of all, there were a lot of _I’m sorry_. Roy didn’t say all that. Riza did, though, and he had no answer. He looked at her and thought about all the times he had looked at her before, under the crumbling roof of the Hawkeye house and the crumbling scrutiny from the Hawkeye absent patriarch, and to him, she still was a girl. She was that girl.

She was eighteen and him going twenty-two—he was, indeed, equally, awfully young, but he had trained himself to look at Riza Hawkeye as a girl, that girl, _the_ girl. The girl he held close to heart and he silently promised to come back to, though she never knew it. Roy was, after all, built with a little too much bravado. She had been twelve when he’d first met her, soft and timid and far too young for him to think her otherwise than a girl, and though she’d grown—she’d _grown_ , though perhaps meeting her here was a proof that unfortunately she didn’t grow enough to not follow him, the boy (he, too, was just a boy, at a time; a boy who cherished her and would do anything, no matter how stupid, to see her smile) who’d made empty promises both to her and his own conscience.

Each time their paths crossed it ached to see the hollow of her eyes and the sallow of her face, and it ached to hear the _Major Mustang, Sir_ , all-too-reminiscent of the timid and untrusting _if you would, Mr. Mustang_ , and _excuse me, Mr. Mustang_ that felt so far long ago, buried underneath a budding friendship and twined hands and touching shoulders underneath meteor showers. It ached to see her back, the white military-issued cloak dirty and stained red by the sand, and knew that underneath it were the reason why this destruction, why _his_ destruction could happen. Now that she was here, as blood-bathed as he was though not even close, Roy found himself wishing he could turn back time.

So maybe he hadn’t—maybe they _both_ hadn’t really grown at all and here, in the heat of the sun and the lick of his flames and the scope of her rifle, was the place they would finally break. Maybe here was where the boy who wished for the world and the girl who trusted him with too much would turn into other people.

+

_where I used to end was where you start_

+

Roy Mustang was, perhaps, would forever be a boy, with farfetched dreams and impossible ideals and too much naivete that he should’ve known better to discard. But he prepared to bury that boy anyways, and to stand his ground and move forward and be _better, better, better_ , because frankly, even his mother always said he had the head of a bull.

The woman in front of him wasn’t the same girl he met at fifteen. She wasn’t even the injured girl ( _burned, the burnt girl, the girl he had burned_ ) he tried his very best to tend to. He took one look at her eyes, still slightly hollow, but it was no longer empty, no longer aching. The woman in front of him was scarred on her back but she was free, and she had buried that girl he had clung onto and Roy realised that she was someone, _the only one_ , he would give his whole life to.

“How’s the back?” He asked, quiet and suppressed, expecting her eyes to turn cold.

But they didn’t. They were still the warm, burnt-honey eyes that caught the sun a little too beautifully. “It itches, sometimes, but it’s healing very well,” she told him, honest and placating at the same time. It gave him a hope that she did not hold this against him, she did not hold anything against him, and it amazed him she could still look at him in the eye with no contempt at all. It amazed him that she was still here, after him, after all he had done. To the world—and to her.

“That’s good,” he said, “that’s good.”

It was where they would end, and they would start.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this wasn't really a royai playlist per se it's just amongst my fav songs so expect some repeat from some albums and artists! like, wilder mind is one of my fav albums sooo :>


	3. i don't care if heaven won't take me back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angel with a shotgun - the cab

_are you a saint or a sinner?_

+

The man who burnt her back had stayed to help her heal. She was delirious with pain and painkillers in equal measures, rarely truly in her own head in the beginning, so it was with immense amusement she noticed how he’d burned her when she asked him to, and how he didn’t leave when she told him to. Sometimes, Roy Mustang was such an enigma of contradictions that she wondered who was truly inside.

(When she had been fourteen — the city boy who’d been too naive to be one. When she had been sixteen — the brilliant young man with big dreams, noble dreams. When she had been eighteen — the monster who—whom she made.)

And so came more darkly amusing realisations to Riza: he had wanted to help the people, and then he killed people. He had killed people, and now he wanted to protect them.

When she was well enough for him to leave he did. He asked her what she would do. She told him perhaps quit.

But Riza was raised a Hawkeye—and they know no take-backs. Her father had set his foot on flame alchemy and never once again bat an eye to another. She had set her foot on the military and now, she had to deal with the consequences.

So she stood in front of him at attention, _Lieutenant Colonel Mustang_ , young, so young, with bright eyes and darkened soul, whose crisp, clean white gloves glowed with the red of silk thread that had woven its way on her back long before had burnt a whole civilisation to black ash.

“So you chose this,” he said, his calm betraying the small waver she knew only she would catch.

When she turned twenty—she realised he was all that boy and that man and that monster, all in one.

+

_I’ll throw away my faith just to keep you safe_

+

The first time she held a rifle again, her surroundings reorient—she wasn’t under East’s bright, but friendly sun, she was perched on the tower of a sacred temple, trampling over holy ground to kill the masses. At that moment she had felt like God—the power to end a life and to let it live just in the twist of her finger on the trigger. Only this time, she felt dizzy—on her belly on the cool platform, overlooking the target across the field with Rebecca Catalina by her side in the same position, she was far too low to aim. It didn’t stop the way the target that was straight ahead disappeared, and the way she saw R—she saw the then-Major, looking at her rifle like he knew she was aiming instead.

Even back then, he had never moved. Something told her that had she pulled the trigger, he wouldn’t dodge, he would welcome it.

But she remembered the way her rifle had moved aim and her finger had pulled the trigger in the split of a second, a decision made by body and instinct instead of heart and brain, and the way the disgust of being a killer was overcame with the fact that _he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe_.

Riza steadied her rifle and held her guns in her hands, and each bullet she had fired for the moving paper target could’ve been a man, the holes she shot through them could’ve sprouted blood, but it would mean keeping him safe.

The Hawk’s Eyes turned into an eternal moniker.

+

_you’re everything I have_

+

Riza was Hawkeye, now, prim and straight-laced Lieutenant Hawkeye, the pillar of common sense and propriety of her team (only by occasional exchange with Falman). And Roy was Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, now, or the Flame Alchemist, infamously somewhat of a flirt and a sleaze, but equally workaholic and productive. Both these personas did not fall apart when they were alone. He still lightly teased her, and she pointedly scolded him. They work in perfectly professional, yet companionable silence. And they were often alone, overtimes that stretched to the dead of night, missions where it would be imperative she be by his side, or even simply dropping each other’s home after a night of indulgences.

But they did merge a little more seamlessly with the girl who all but adored her father’s apprentice, and him with the kind and naive idealistic boy who wanted to change the world. When they were alone, these parts of themselves showed. Most of the times, only a little bit.

Some other times, it got the better of them.

Hawkeye stared, unsure of where the question had came from. And yet he quietly waited, not showing a sign of retracting his question. Alcohol, after all, would loosen tongues and hearts alike.

_I’ve never known what made you join the military, Hawkeye._

“I believe I’ve told you when I came to work in your unit, Sir.” Evasiveness had never been her strong point.

“It was why you stayed,” the Lieutenant Colonel gently reminded her. But he must realise how delicate this would be, how much this would tip the comfortable balance in this new life they had built. “I’m sorry—nevermind, Lieutenant. I shouldn’t be probing you for such a private matter.”

 _It was complicated_ , she wanted to answer. _I was young, confused, and alone. I was impressed. I was in love. I was scared, and I wanted to have a familiarity I can hold on to for the rest of my life—I don’t want to lose anyone anymore_.

But she knew it wasn’t complicated, not in the very least. It was simple, overwhelmingly simple as trusting him with flame alchemy and having him erase it. It was as simple as how easy it was for her to tell him she’d follow him to hell, and mean it.

_Because you were all I had._

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because WHAT IS a royai songfic without the sorta cheesy and cliched but eternally fitting royai anthem? wanted to update the theory of everything but life's kicking me in the ass this week... i am Sad. in the meantime have dis short one


	4. not anyone, you're the one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a chapter summary feature now???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sanctuary - joji

_when you lay alone, I ache_

+

Tonight they had went out drinking with the unit, a small celebration after a successful case that’d lay another stepping stone in his journey to the top. It was indulgent. Then again, Roy was a self-indulging man.

Hawkeye confiscated his bottle after the fourth glass, and no amount of cajoling, even from Havoc who’d been growing tipsier by the second, shook her. Roy was nowhere near drunk, but there was a buzz in his chest and a strange clarity in his brain that he only got with alcohol.

He liked drinking—strangely enough, to a limit, alcohol cleared his head. It usually brought back old memories to the surface, with enough haze to make him think they were good memories. Most of the memories were about Hawkeye; it could be the fact that she was always _there_ , but it was like such. Funnily enough for him, time had blurred the lines between the young, sweet, beautiful girl he met at sixteen, the hardened, war-stricken, _disappointed_ young woman in Ishval, with eyes the colour of red sand, only duller, and the woman, the soldier, the partner who now always stuck by his side. Alcohol, on the other hand, pulled back the buried memories of Riza’s smile, Riza’s sweet timid voice. Riza’s encrypted, smooth back.

“We’re here, Colonel.”

“You know,” he sighed, “I’m as good as sober right now. I could’ve driven home on my own, or better yet, I could’ve driven you home first, Hawkeye.”

Hawkeye gave him a long, but amused look. “I prefer to ride a car driven safely,” she said, and Roy was too used to it (and too fond of her) to take the jab personally. She turned off the ignition and pulled the key off, handing it to him.

For only a couple of seconds Roy ignored her hand in lieu of closely watching her face. He let himself got lost in the strange, perfectly demarcated versions of Riza, of Hawkeye, of his Lieutenant in his head.

Riza, he thought, would have welcomed him driving her home, though reluctant. Riza would linger a little bit on her door (he knew her door, made of dark oak, young, and creaked slightly when opened) and he’d make pointless conversations with a smile that grew more and more relaxed by the minute. Someone from her floor might pass the corridor, give them a short once-over, and continued, yet Riza would flush slightly and tell him to go. He’d say something stupid, like _and if I don’t want to?_ or, _I still want to talk with you_ , a suave smile built of bravado, and she’d do something stupid, too, like saying _well then, maybe you should come in, Colonel, it’s cold out_. They’d do something terribly stupid, then; something stupid that might end their careers and ruin their goals but only natural to happen.

This was Hawkeye though—Lieutenant Hawkeye, and she didn’t let him drive, let alone drive her home, so she wordlessly handed him his car keys instead. There was no chance of him flirting her up at her door, closing it behind him, gently pushing her against it. He’d go to sleep alone, maybe take out a whiskey from his fridge and sip a glass or two. She’d go to her home, to her dog, and maybe hug the dog when they were ready to fall asleep. The thought ached him, somewhat.

“Colonel?” She asked, tilting her head only very slightly. Roy sighed. This was Lieutenant Hawkeye, and this was the time of the night they would have to go separate ways.

Though there was little he hated more.

“Take the car,” he told her lightly. She could, and had taken a taxi before, or walked—it wasn’t far, only two blocks, but the thought of not spending the night with her (not like he had ever did) was already too painful in the wake of the alcohol, so the thought of her walking alone all the way was unbearable, almost. “Bring it to the office at morning. Thanks, Hawkeye.”

He slipped out of his own car before she could say anything.

+

_I’ve been aiming for heaven above but an angel isn’t what I need_

+

Maes was gone.

Gone.

No matter how he tried to wrap his mind around the fact, he almost couldn’t. Maes was gone, dead and shot by someone—or something; did it even matter? There was an ache so severe it blunted off all his nerve ends and he felt nothing in his chest, only heat, painful, angry flames licking from the insides out. And questions, just questions running endlessly like water, like blood in stream—he was shot, he would have bled, the red seeping through the military blues—

The phone rang.

“Colonel Mustang, there’s a call from a normal line.”

“Put me through.”

 _“Colonel.”_ Hawkeye. Riza’s voice reverberated through the line and his whole body felt on alert.

_Hughes? Hughes? … Hughes?!_

But there was a voice at the end of the line. Hawkeye’s. Riza’s. And she was fine, assured him she was, though still he shook his desk opening the drawer to get to his gloves. _She was fine_. Roy stopped and paused, looking at his spare pistol inside. Not his weapon of choice, not his main tool of the trade, but it was Hawkeye’s. He wasn’t bad at it by all means—but if Riza would need it…

The pistol rested heavy on his chest all the way.

But she was fine, sans the harassment that made his blood boil; though what he learned from Barry was far too incredible to comprehend. It messed with his line of thought, his rough analysis, and presented a plethora of possible new problems in his tracks, but at the same time, they made sense. They made _so much sense_ because there was _no way Hughes was that easily rendered incapable, no way he’d die because of an enemy that easily, he fought with him in Ishval and the man was even promoted Captain in no time, he was better than that, Hughes was sharper than that, one of the brightest person he’d known—_

“Colonel?”

Roy blinked and turned his head, chin still on his palm, to look at her. Riza glanced briefly and they locked eyes before she turned her attention back on the road. “Hm?”

“Would you care to share some next steps, Sir, after we lured the enemy once they want to retrieve Barry?”

They stop at a red light and Hawkeye took the chance to look him in the eye, expectant of him to elaborate what was on his mind. “Well—“

Her eyes made him stop in his tracks. Riza tilted her head slightly, questioning. But he didn’t see question in her eyes. Roy felt his heart drop—he saw devotion, and utter trust, in her eyes.

 _Even to hell_. He should’ve known—should’ve known from the time he’d befriended the quiet, shut-in girl, his master’s daughter, that while she was far more than meets the eye, she was never less than what she said. _Even to hell_ , she’d said. And she meant it.

Roy wished she hadn’t. Wished she had never followed him, never be in harm’s way, he wished she would never, _never_ end like Hughes, alone, bleeding, without him. He had an idea why he wished so; and he had an unfortunate realisation why she would truly, truly follow him to hell, even if it would burn her. A strange urge to laugh crept up inside him, and Roy reached inside his suit jacket to unload his pistol from the holster. He pulled the safety on and put in on the chair between them.

“Sir?”

“I want you to have this,” he said, “it will only get worse from here. More dangerous. I know you bring concealed weapons on you at all times but I want you to bring one more. Because we’ll put our lives on the line for every single thing we do, Lieutenant, you know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said quietly, “and from now on, you can’t always be down in the field, Sir, or else everything will go to waste. Especially for missions as risky as this, you should stay behind safely—“

He couldn’t help but smile, feeling slightly ironic; sometimes he wondered who really was the commander.

“I envy you,” he said, and Hawkeye frowned. “Hawkeye, I envy you, you know?”

“Sir,” she said sternly as she started moving the car, “this isn’t the time—“

“I envy you for having the utmost freedom to tell me to sit my ass down and be safe,” he said, looking out the window, letting his forehead touch the cool glass, “I couldn’t do that, though there’s nothing I want more.”

He knew she understood—they’d been together long enough, had gotten far too well-honed to read each other under the lines. He wanted her safe, at all times, happy, warm, smiling, at all times. He already hurt her enough, wounded her enough, and he didn’t want to lead her to an early grave, like he did Hughes. Riza’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“Be safe.”

_Angels have no business going to hell._

+

_hold me close because you never know just how long our lives will be_

+

He was late.

He was late again, too late, far too late except she wouldn’t be there to glare at him and tell him off, she wouldn’t be there to point out the ridiculous amount of paperwork he had to read and sign, she wouldn’t be there to accompany him to his late morning coffee. What would be there, though, would be her lifeless eyes, her limp body, her blood seeping through her clothes, flowing. Roy knew it would be a pain he couldn’t handle, so he settled with one he could— _stop the bleeding, don’t pass out, get to Hawkeye, save Hawkeye, save Hawkeye save Hawkeye safe please be safe—_

He could hear her cry though he couldn’t see her, hidden behind Alphonse’s armour. It definitely wasn’t the first time he made her cry, he thought forlornly amidst his anger and his pain. She was alive, at least, he thought, not like Hughes. She was alive, though crying, she wasn’t injured—

She was alive, but he must be halfway to death, Roy thought. The thought was somewhat comforting as he let himself topple down and she reached out to hold him. She was safe, _no thanks to him, thanks to a kid he stupidly brought into this war against whatever the hell it was on the other side_. She was safe, Havoc wasn’t, but she was safe…

The water on his face must’ve dripped down from her eyes. Roy wished he had enough life and enough strength in him to pull her in his arms. He wished she’d kiss him, never mind a child was in front of them—he was more than halfway to death and he wanted nothing more than for her to take his last breath. When he’d told her he trusted his life and death in her hands, he’d meant it.

He wanted her to kiss him.

It was a stupid thought, stupid wish, and he was too far gone to ask for it—not that he had any right to ask any more of her in this life—but he could feel her palms on his cheeks, her forehead on his, her breath ghosting against his lips. It swirled with his ragged ones in a space so narrow it was like this space he was in, between life and death, and Roy smiled.

Maybe he’d live another day to give it to her instead of asking.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spiralled out of control as usual... by the way you CANNOT expect me to skip out on that damn shoulder holster moment. HE WAS INSANE FOR THAT anyways pistol in shoulder holster roy lives in my mind rent free so pls free up rent in your minds as well


	5. nights are mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do I wanna know - hozier (live at the bbc cover)

_how many secrets can you keep?_

+

Indisputably, the colonel was the person who knew her the most. She carried with her a number of secrets; and he knew most of them. Flame alchemy, her familial relation in the military, their history of shared childhood, are three she considered must be kept the safest. The last one hadn’t meant to be a secret, but with the way of things it just turned into one. Then there were some deep, but smaller secrets, like how she still woke up in cold sweat for a whole year after Ishval. Some more weren’t secrets but felt like ones: he had a spare key for her flat, he was named emergency contact in cases of medical reasons or the other, he was the first in the list of people who would have access to her sparse assets should she die.

And likewise she held secrets of his own, like how his dates were not really dates, how he’d turned briefly to alcohol after Ishval. Then there were secrets between them, not really regarding them but regarding their country and people’s lives, the true work underneath all the show of work they did on the surface. Secrets were normal. In such a life that they’d chosen, they really were. To each other these secrets were verbalised, visualised, shared explicitly between the two of them in extremely rare moments of truth between each other.

And so in the face of the world they became so used to talking in codes and reading around the lines, used to communicate with the secrets they lived with these rare moments of truth became unnecessary.

Like the way his eyes sometimes flicker to her lips when they were talking, the way his hand lingered when they accidentally touched, the way he always made sure to drop her home after a night out or at the very least had her bring his car, the way he always stood in the way between her and any brazen stranger brave enough to approach in said night outs. The way he remembered her sandwich preferences if she had had no time to run to the cafeteria. The way he would almost always drop anything and everything, the way he could appear by her side before true danger arose.

The way his voice rose when telling her to keep her life.

If there was one secret she had never told him it was that she loved him—always did, since she was far too young to distinguish love from infatuation, when she was regretful and pained, when she almost hated him. To Riza it felt like too big a burden for him to shoulder while at the same time too trivial, too frivolous for the predicament they were in, for the goals they were pursuing.

She hadn’t ever stopped to think he might have the same secrets too.

And he must knew—he must knew from the way her lips would quirk upwards when watching him in a back-and-forth quip with their team, the way she followed him like a shadow, the way she always stayed sober to make sure she could drive him home, the way she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger to anyone who would lay a hand to him. The way she’d give up her life if he wasn’t there.

She loved him—and he loved her back. This, was the secret they had always kept, yet they couldn’t keep.

+

_sort of hoping that you’d stay_

+

She killed the ignition and glanced towards the passenger seat. The colonel was still doubling over, head in his hands. It took a surprising amount of willpower for her to not reach out and touch him. “Sir?”

He snapped up and promptly winced from the motion, hand absently holding on his left side. “Yeah.”

“We’re here.” Despite saying that Riza hadn’t taken off the key from its slot in the ignition, and made no movement to do so. Roy, too, didn’t move to open his door and instead leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and sighing. “Are you alright, Sir?”

He opened one eye half-heartedly to look at her and smiled; it was thin, amused, almost sardonic. “Absolutely not, my dear Lieutenant,” he said, smile blowing into a grin. “This is painful.”

To hell with willpower, Riza reached out to open his unbuttoned coat aside, to see the bandaged wound under. Roy chuckled. “A bit unbecoming, Lieutenant. All you have to do is ask, you know.”

She shot him a dirty look before inspecting the bandage. It didn’t seep red through the white. “It didn’t seem to bleed or open again,” she said thoughtfully, “did you take the last dose of painkiller?”

Roy only hummed in response, and Riza froze as she looked up to see him stare at her with an emotion in his eyes she didn’t want to name. He lifted a hand to her face, to tuck her bangs away and her untied hair behind her ear. That faintest touch felt like fire on her skin. “Riza,” he said quietly, like her name was prayer and everything he wanted to say.

The _Roy—_ _Sir—_ _Colonel—_ died in her throat.

His bandaged palm rested to cup her cheek, thumb running over her cheekbone. The air between them was thick and still, like a blanket of fog over them and it was like the world outside grew blurry, like there had been no wars behind them, no homunculus outside somewhere steering their very lives, like the parking lot of his apartment complex was empty and unreal and the only things that were real were the weight of her head against his palm and the scrape of his bandage against her face. She could almost hear her own pulse in her ears, strong, steady.

And truly, she wished such were the case—that they were just Roy and Riza, here, in Roy’s car in front of Roy’s apartment building, that none of those were real, that the only things that were real were the intent in his eyes and the want in her heart, and not the shitstorm brewing outside. She wished what were real were the way she’d follow him upstairs and stay until the morning wrapped in his skin against hers, buried in his blankets. She wished what were real were the way he would lean forward and press his lips against hers and move his hand to the back of her neck, where the weight would rest warm and steady.

But what were real were the carved scar underneath his bandage that mirrored the array on her back, what were real were the thin, fragile skin on his stomach that would end like the burns, also on her back. What were real were inhuman beings roaming the underground of their city and their country, and serial killers out for the blood of mass murderers—them. What were real were that kids were losing limbs and body and soul, outside.

He probably also knew this.

“Be safe,” he said, and with that, Roy’s hand fell down, and Riza opened her eyes, not realising she’d closed them. He gave her a tired smile, and slipped out of the car.

+

_maybe I’m too busy being yours_

+

The Colonel and the Fuhrer couldn’t be further apart. Roy took coffee, and Bradley took tea. Roy tended to walk brusquely, fast and impatient, and Bradley would walk a leisurely walk with calculated steps that were too silent for Riza’s liking. Roy was gentle stares and smiles hidden behind the brisk guise of professionalism, Bradley was menace and silent threats hidden behind civil, moderate smiles. The contrasts were stark. It unnerved her, more than the fact that Bradley wasn’t human.

There were a limited amount of times she could conjure up flimsy excuses to visit the old office (empty, barren, with Roy miserably sitting alone in his large desk like a single piece on the chessboard), and it ended with her finally taking her last possession, a single pen. The smile he shot her was fond and sad.

 _I missed you too_.

“Alright, out with it.”

Riza snapped back to reality and looked at Havoc, who was lazily staring back at her while absently lifting his dumbbell. Ever since she was transferred the city felt like it had eyes, and the bright fluorescent lights in the hospital somewhat eased her, let her know she was safer, here, than anywhere. She’d drop by, drop greetings from Rebecca, gloss over long-term plans, and shared whatever news each other could get about the rest of the team with Havoc. Updates from the South were always the ones that had them tense. She liked visiting Havoc, liked the overwhelming familiarity, the remaining one, now that she’d lost the rest. And it was somewhat amusing to see Havoc’s indignant hurt over being the only Mustang unit whom the homunculi didn’t bother to keep track on.

But also, it was useful that he was off-limits. She finally could talk to someone else regarding their plans without codes, the painstaking coding of a letter and decoding of the reply she’d struggled with Breda’s and Falman’s and Fuery’s. Havoc was far more perceptive than he’d let on, practical and simple, and she had always liked discussing with him, though she missed the way Roy would have fire in his eyes in situations such as this.

“Out with what,” she flatly asked, and Havoc raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot. More than usual, anyways,” his country drawl stepped a notch down, more gentle, “you’re not in danger, are you?”

“Not imminently, at least,” she shrugged. “Working as the Fuhrer’s assistant just… throws me off-balance at times.”

Havoc, surprisingly, managed a small smirk. “Aw, you missed us,” he pointed to her, and Riza rolled her eyes. “Especially the chief.”

They’ve been working for years together, built trust within each other for so long, yet this was the first time, ever, that anyone else in the unit spoke to her about presumptions over her and Roy’s relationship. She froze, and Havoc’s smile turned slightly apologetic. “Sorry, low blow. But also, I’m no longer a soldier and no longer under either of you so finally I can start talking some sense into both your dense skulls,” he reached out to take a strip of gum from his bedside, “without the risk of being written up for insubordination, that is.”

“The colonel and I—we’re not in a relationship.”

“That much is evident,” Havoc sighed, and Riza was thrown off. “You two are far too righteous for it to be otherwise.”

Havoc blew his gum and it made a soft _pop_ as it burst and as he went back chewing, lazily looking at her. “I don’t have a lot of regrets, you know, getting crippled like this. Injuries, death, they happen with our work, don’t they?” He leaned back, thoughtful. “I thought about it a lot all this time I’m here. I don’t blame anyone, I don’t blame the chief, I don’t blame me. Hell, I don’t even blame Sol—Lust.”

Riza stared at him, not knowing what to say. “I’m not exactly suicidal. I appreciate not dying, alright. But it just made me think how _easy_ it is to die. And if I had died, I probably would have more regrets than living crippled,” Havoc shrugged, and looked at her in the eyes. “All I’m saying is life’s fickle, Hawkeye. One second you’re breathing and next you don’t. Especially in times as batshit as this.”

The room fell silent, only the distant clatter of nurses’ trolleys outside at the ward hallway. Riza watched Havoc carefully, still unable to respond, and her old unit member smiled, warm and genuine. “I just don’t want either of you to die with regrets.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because hozier's cover is SO different from arctic monkeys' one!!! check it out!!! it's my Sad and Yearning Anthem

**Author's Note:**

> series title: cold arms - mumford and sons


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